23 and counting.

Senior year dorm room throwback.

Birthdays have always felt backwards to me. In a glass-half-empty kind of way, marking the inevitable passing of time feels more scary than celebratory, like a clock ticking down rather than tally marks adding up. It also feels a little bit silly: all I'm guaranteed to have done by living to see another year is the bare minimum to survive, with no stipulation whatsoever that I've necessarily made any positive contributions to the world in that time. (Even more pessimistically, I've continued to use up resources on an overpopulated planet, so it's conceivable that I've actually made a negative impact over the past year. Bummer.) This kind of thinking makes it difficult to accept everyone's well wishes: "Thank you! I wish I could say I'd done something worthy of memorializing!"

I love other people's birthdays, though. I am a perpetual late gift-giver, but only because I struggle to find material objects worthy of all the incredible people I know. I want to give them love and hope and contentment and inspiration and hugs that can be saved in a jar for when they're needed the most, but I haven't yet encountered the specialty shop that carries those. I love other people's birthdays because I have difficulty appropriately expressing gratitude for kindness that's shown to me, but I love having the opportunity to shower my loved ones with the kindness I think they deserve. I know, I know, talk about cognitive dissonance and a major lack of self-esteem, but I'll always look suspiciously on those people who get unreasonably excited for special treatment on "their" day.

Speaking of holidays I'm not a huge fan of, Thanksgiving makes me uncomfortable as well. It's a made-up occasion based in historical genocide, for one; it's a public outing of emotions I prefer to keep private, for another. Going around the table and hearing what everyone's thankful for sounds nice in theory, but when it comes to my turn, I feel almost resentful that I'm being required to share something so personal. Of course I'm thankful for good health, my education, financial stability, everything that would naturally be cause for gratitude for anyone who has them; what I'm more individually thankful for is the unique collection of friends and acquaintances who have nudged me into the shape of a person I am today. They're the best; who wouldn't be thankful? But with turkey, ham, and stuffing on the table, I doubt anyone genuinely wants to hear me rhapsodize about the last time someone lent me an amazing book or held my hand or offered me a french fry off their plate and laughed at my jokes, so I'll mumble some canned answer to speed the process along, and keep the honesty to myself.

My birthday is the day I really give thanks, I guess. Every time my phone buzzes or a notification pops up on my Facebook, I'm reminded of one more person in the world who wants me to have a happy birthday, with varying degrees of sincerity, but at least enough to type out the words and click send. I spend a lot of time clacking away at my keyboard with abandon, but I know most people don't, so the gesture means a lot to me. My favorite part of my birthday is the reminder that those people exist.

It's no secret to those closest to me that this past year has been the hardest one of my life. On October 4, 2013, I had newly arrived in York, excited to explore a beautiful city and surrounding countryside, to throw myself into the study of literature at a world-class university, to meet similarly enthused colleagues and peers, and to live a mere three-hour train ride (much closer than an international flight) away from the boy I couldn't get enough of. Twelve months later, I've experienced a slew of firsts, but not the kind anyone would wish for: first time feeling inadequate in a field I had always considered mine, first time feeling betrayed by everything I'd previously found solace in, first time acknowledging my own brain's battle against me, first time needing to seek professional help, first time crying in front of a stranger, first time feeling unable to read or write or think anything at all, first time feeling my heart try to throw itself out of my chest after being made to feel worthless by someone I loved, first time having to admit defeat and go home. 22 wasn't a particularly fun age.

Then again, this was also the year that a friend picked up a long-distance phone call while he was at an amusement park, and refused to go anywhere near a roller coaster until I stopped sobbing and he was sure I was going to be all right. It was the year I dressed to attend a ball and felt a little bit beautiful because a sweet boy had told me I was, and I believed him. This year, my best friend offered to take off work, dip into her savings, and fly across an ocean just to be with me at my saddest. My brother rationalized my breakup with the logic that my ex-boyfriend probably felt guilty, "because you're great, and he probably feels bad that he can't be happy with someone as great as you." People this year complimented me -- me! seriously! -- on my makeup. Friends continued to laugh at my jokes, to retweet my tweets, to answer my text messages. 22 could have been worse.

What I'm saying, I think, is that the thing that makes me happiest on my birthday is other people. Happy birthday to me, but happy every day to you, friends. You're the one who deserve to be celebrated. I hope we're still friends when I turn 24.